


On Letting Go

by SummerNightmares (BlackDog9314)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recently Resurrected Dean Winchester, Referenced Alastair, Sam is a Saint, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDog9314/pseuds/SummerNightmares
Summary: When it happens it’s so sudden it’s not at all clear what causes it; one second Dean is fine and he feels good, (great, even) and the next he’s crying so hard he can’t say anything beyond ‘no, please’ over and over.





	On Letting Go

When it happens it’s so sudden it’s not at all clear what causes it; one second Dean is fine and he feels good, (great, even) and the next he’s crying so hard he can’t say anything beyond ‘no, please’ over and over.

The evening starts with Sam pressed tight against Dean in a cramped motel room bed, both of them hard in his broad palm as he strokes them through the tunnel his fingers make. It’s only been a week since they admitted their feelings for one another (only a couple of months since Dean dug his way out of the ground), and they’re both a little tipsy from the shots they got for free at the bar after lying about it being Sam's birthday, and it’s been _fun_. The night has been one of the best the boys have had in what feels like forever, and Dean’s whimpering into the side of Sam’s damp neck as his orgasm slowly builds, slowly unfurls its way up the length of his spine and dances over his skin where it's bare and warm.

But when Dean starts to come, when he starts to feel the hot slick of his release as it lands on his belly, he pulls away so abruptly that Sam loudly calls his name in surprise.

Unable to respond, Dean pushes himself flat on his back as far away on the bed as he can press himself and closes his eyes tight. He feels tears stream down his hot face as he wraps his arms around himself and tries to _breathe_ in, tries not to think about how hard his heart's pounding in his heaving chest.

Sam’s hands are restless and tight on Dean’s shoulders where they follow him across the mattress, and when Dean forces his eyes open again he can see how scared Sam looks, how heartbroken.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks once, twice, three times.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He’s never called Dean anything but his name before, and it should be something sweet, something cherished and significant between them but instead it's desperate and strained. Sam sounds like he’s about to cry and Dean hates it as much as he’s helpless to make any of it better.

Dean’s pants are still rucked down around his trembling thighs on the bed, and when he looks at the cracks in the ceiling he can also see plumes of soot and flame and hazy molten air and Alastair, can almost  _feel_ the demon’s greedy hands. He can feel his own bleeding arms pulled from their sockets and stretched out tight and brutal over the rack like he was never rescued from hell.

He can still _feel_ how much satisfaction Alastair got from making Dean—

Dean lets out a choked sob and rakes his hands down over his stomach, smearing the white away with such force he thinks he might be breaking skin.

“Stop, stop!” Sam says as he takes Dean’s hands. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Did I _hurt_ you, Dean?”

Dean’s still weeping and can’t seem to make himself stop, and he’s afraid.

“Sammy,” he forces out through the breaths that burn his throat and lungs. “Sam, I—”

He can’t say it. He can’t tell his brother that the same  _thing_  that raped him also made him—

Dean shakes his head, closing his eyes again.

He can’t even _think_ it.

He feels no guilt over being forced to fuck. He's never experienced shame at the memory of his legs being spread or his head held down. He knows he never had a choice when Alastair forced his way in and stayed there for hours, that the demon would have gotten what he wanted regardless of whatever struggle Dean put up or tactics used to try and distract him.

The rest, though, the fucking _rest_ of it—it eats through the center of Dean's chest like fire. It forms a loop that plays through his head over and over and over when he's too weak to keep it quiet and broken in the back of his mind where he keeps so many other things.

The body he’s trapped inside feels like it's betrayed him even though he had no body in hell, and Dean wants to get out of it, out of his clothes and his skin and the muscles currently so tense he can feel his legs and arms cramping. He wants to rip and tear at whatever he can reach until this fucking suffocating  _cage_ expels him, but Sam is still holding his hands and Dean can’t pull them away when he’s crying this hard, when his entire body is violently shaking and he wants to stop thinking and feeling at all. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” he whispers hoarsely.

Sam wraps his arms around him, as if understanding that he can, now, that he needs to.

“Sammy,” Dean says brokenly into the broad expanse of his brother's shoulder. “Sammy.”

It’s all he can say, and Sam seems to understand and holds him until the bright, searing visions of hell begin to fade away, until the tears start to dry and the tremors to slowly stop. 

After, Sam cleans up the little wells of blood and the sticky streaks of white from Dean's raw, red belly with a warm, damp cloth before he pulls the ugly floral bedcovers over the both of them.

Then, Sam presses in close again and clasps Dean’s head carefully to his chest, inhaling long and even and easy until Dean is eventually doing the same and their breaths sync.

It somehow feels wrong to let Sam coddle him like this; it feels as if Dean has failed, but Sam presses kisses to the crown of Dean's head and holds him close and steady in the solid frame his arms make until Dean falls asleep.

 ~^~^~

The following morning, Dean wakes up to a Styrofoam cup of candy coffee and a small, leather-bound journal with a tree stamped onto its soft brown cover lying on the dresser beside the bed.

“I know you’ll tell me one day,” Sam says gently. “But…until then, maybe you can write it down?”

Dean holds the journal for a few minutes in silence, then looks back up at his brother.

When he reaches for Sam’s hand, they twine their fingers together on the worn comforter, and Dean hopes his brother knows that he’s thankful.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this because something sort of set me off earlier and I'm having an anxiety attack right now and...idk, I wanted to do something productive with it and try to at least express some part of what I'm feeling. Idk if this has done any good, but here it is anyway, I guess.  
> Usually I spend a lot more time editing, but this one just sort of happened, and I doubt I'll touch it again.  
> I tried to provide a resolution, but...I don't think there really is one. Maybe I'm being pessimistic. Anyway. Thanks for reading, I think.


End file.
